


Rematch

by greywash



Series: Spring Break Creative Calisthenics [8]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Consent Issues, Enemies, F/F, Housebreaking, Spring Break Creative Calisthenics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 08:56:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6368269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dottie likes Chicago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rematch

**Author's Note:**

> Over spring break, [I am asking for some prompts on Tumblr](http://fizzygins.tumblr.com/post/141318279512/okay-so-i-have-been-having-an-awful-time-with) to help me shake out the writerly cobwebs. [shadaras](http://shadaras.tumblr.com/) requested: "for the prompt stuff! 'breath' and/or 'serpent', Peggy/Dottie (Agent Carter)"
> 
>  **Warnings for consent issues and disturbing content**. My full warning policy is in my [profile](http://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/profile#warnings); if you have any questions, please feel free to [email me](mailto:greywash@gmail.com).

Peggy is in Los Angeles for a summer, Santa Fe for the fall; at the tail end of November she spends a fortnight in Washington D.C. explaining? defending? justifying? herself to a series of stone-faced old men in uniforms, in expensive suits, and then is sent to Chicago—as punishment, Dottie can only assume. It wouldn’t be a punishment for someone like Dottie. Dottie likes Chicago. The cold makes Americans slower, drowsier, but it sharpens her like it hones the air in her lungs to knife-points. It looks like Peggy likes it, too: it looks like it makes her blood work. Pinks up her cheeks.

In Chicago Peggy rents a third-floor room from three women—unmarried daughter; widowed mother; the mother’s decrepit spinster aunt—in a row house on Taylor Street. It means that Dottie has to be extra careful: light feet on the drainpipe, gloves quiet on the sash, so that no one will wake up. In Washington the hotel was ground floor, easy. In Los Angeles the place was a house. In Chicago the wind is coming up, driving at Dottie darting cold firework-sparks, but up in her room burrowed into blankets, Peggy sleeps on like a bear. All Dottie can see are her hands, her hair coming undone on the pillow, and the way the blankets rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall, while Dottie slides a book on its spine in to hold up the window and then grabs Peggy’s wrists in her hand. 

It’s not a good hold, and even from a dead sleep Peggy is more dangerous than almost anyone; what Dottie really finds surprising is that this time she can hold her own. Washington had been a disaster. In Santa Fe Peggy had her down on her back pinned with her gun to her jaw before Dottie’d even got three hits in, but Dottie’d been hungry, in Santa Fe. Worn thin. Los Angeles—well. In that man’s house in Los Angeles Dottie’d underestimated Peggy: even Dottie can admit to that. She’d looked at Peggy’s hair spread out over the pillow and her soft limp white arms, the strap of her slip sliding over the satin of her shoulder and the soft broad hand on her back; and she’d thought, _if I’m careful, I won’t wake him;_ _if I force her face down into the pillow, she will cease to breathe._ So Dottie had grabbed at Peggy’s wrists and tried to sit straddling the back of her head and Peggy had thrown her onto the floor with a drum-beat thump that shook the walls of the house; and they had stilled, the both of them, for an instant; but the man slept on.

Careless.

Here in Chicago with three generations of women sleeping silent in the rooms of the house holding up Peggy’s bed they wrestle and shove and the bed slides on the rug but it doesn’t hit the wall even though Dottie’s face hits the floor. Peggy throws elbows and knees and Dottie grabs-grapples- _squeezes_ on that white white throat but Peggy stays conscious until she can get free, lash out, break two of Dottie’s fingers and also possibly her nose. Peggy doesn’t cry out. Never does. In Santa Fe Dottie’d got through the window at 03:52 and Peggy’d had Dottie disarmed huffing shallowly with her wrists tied with a lampcord and blinking back sparks before the clock struck four. In Washington it’d taken Peggy thirty seconds to get Dottie flat on her back. An anomaly, maybe, because in Los Angeles it’d taken the better part of a quarter of an hour before she’d wound up with Peggy’s hands on her wrists, the only sound between them being their working huffing breaths; with the man fast asleep, not quite snoring, not a yard up above.

It takes Peggy almost twenty minutes, this time. Dottie’s hands bound behind her with Peggy’s damp nylons looped over the edge of the bedframe: it pulls up enough to hurt her shoulders, no way to move without her face scraping the floor. Dottie squirms under Peggy in her sensible flannel pajamas, her solid weight, her soft thighs; while Peggy knocks her battered face to the rug, dust of ages, drags Dottie’s black trousers down. Dottie squirms. It does nothing. Kicks, and Peggy knocks her knees apart; then lies down between them with her hands on Dottie’s bare calves and her breath hot on Dottie’s prickling buttocks while Dottie gasps—teeth open—breathing hard; and then Peggy pushes her face down into her and licks her top to bottom, front to back. 

In silence, Dottie jerks at the nylons, at the weight on her legs. In Los Angeles Peggy’d sat on her thighs, and then shoved her hand in between them: startling; and Dottie had gasped—silent—gasped—and Peggy had stroked her, pressed and pushed and unfolded until Dottie was spread out like a starfish, panting open-mouthed and silent, with the man asleep in the bed up above them and Peggy slid into her up to the wrist. In the hotel in Washington Dottie’d wound up on her back and handcuffed, so Peggy’d just’ve had to kneel up then crawl up and then sit down on her face and then Dottie would’ve had to be silent but Peggy hadn’t had just pushed her thigh between Dottie’s thighs and then pushed down and down and _down_ while open-mouthed bare air Dottie didn’t cry out didn’t cry out didn’t cry out and in Chicago Dottie doesn’t cry out, either, just writhes like a fish on a hook while Peggy slides into her two-fingers-and-thumb fingers tongue and Dottie drips onto the rug. _I will simply have to do better next time_ , Dottie somewhere far-away thinking is thinking far away while Peggy slips her tongue into her, pulls her open, licks her apart; while tied pinned trapped Dottie gasps, tasting the blood from her nose; the dust from the rug; a memory of lipstick half-imagined; and the sharp air from the window, auguring snow.


End file.
